THE INVITATION
The next morning Grace made a startling discovery. It was directly after
breakfast that she made it. Having fifteen minutes to spare before going
to her first recitation, she decided to reread her theme. What one wrote
always read differently after one had slept over it. What seemed clever
at night might be very commonplace when read in the cold light of the
morning. Grace reached for the book in which she had placed her theme.
It was not there. Going down on her knees, she looked first under the
table, then under the chiffonier, then turned over the books on the
table, then, darting to the closet, searched the pockets of her long
coat.
"Where can it be?" she cried despairingly. "I am sure I had it when I
came into the hall last night. I couldn't have lost it on my way across
the campus. I'll run down and ask Anne. Perhaps she picked it up and put
it away for me."
Grace hurried downstairs as fast as her feet would carry her. To her low
inquiry in Anne's ear she received a disappointing answer. Anne, who was
just finishing her breakfast, replied that she had not even seen the
theme. She rose at once to accompany Grace upstairs. The two girls
searched in every nook and corner of the room. "I wanted to hand it in
this morning," lamented Grace. "Now I'll have to write it all over
again. I don't believe I can remember much of it, either. I'll have to
explain to Miss Duncan, too, and ask her to give me until to-morrow to
write it."
"Perhaps it will be found yet," comforted Anne.
"No danger of it, unless I lost it in the street. Then there's only one
chance in a thousand of its turning up," declared Grace gloomily. "I
don't see how I happened to be so careless."
"When must it be handed in?" questioned Anne.
"This morning," answered Grace dolefully. "I'll have to rewrite it
to-night and from memory, too."
"Why don't you choose another subject?" was Anne's advice.
"No." Grace shook her head positively. "I can do better with the old
one. I'm not going to bother about asking if any one has found it. My
name was on it. If I made a fuss over it some one might say it was only
an excuse, that I hadn't really lost it, but just wished to gain time. I
hope Miss Duncan won't think that."
"No one in this house would say so," contradicted Anne loyally.
"But suppose Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton heard of it? They might
circulate that rumor. I hate to seem so suspicious, but an ounce of
prevention, you know. I will write it over and say nothing further about
it." Having made up her mind on the subject Grace promptly dismissed it
from her thoughts.
Miss Duncan did look rather suspiciously at Grace as she related her
misfortune. Grace's gray eyes met hers so fairly and truthfully,
however, that she was forced to believe the young woman's statement. She
gave the desired respite rather ungraciously and Grace took her place in
class, relieved to think she had got off so easily. That night she
rewrote the theme. It did not give her as much trouble as she had
anticipated. She laid down her fountain pen with alacrity when it was
finished and carefully blotted the last sheet. "Now I can begin to think
about the reception," she announced. "What are you going to wear, Anne?"
"My new pink gown," said Anne promptly. "As long as I was extravagant
enough to indulge in a new evening dress I might as well wear it. The
sophomore reception is really the most important affair of the year, to
us, at least."
"I'm delighted to have an opportunity to show off my pale blue chiffon
frock," laughed Grace. "I've been in ecstasies over it ever since it was
made. Have you seen that white gown of Elfreda's? It's perfectly
stunning. I stopped in her room for a minute last night. She was trying
it on. It's the prettiest gown she's had since she came here. Ask her to
show it to you."
"I'm going over there now," said Anne. "I'll be back in a minute." It
was precisely four minutes later when Anne poked her head in Grace's
door. "Come on into Miriam's room, Grace," she called. "She has just
made chocolate. She has some lovely little cakes and sandwiches, too.
And Elfreda has something to tell us."
Grace rose from her chair, lay down the notebook she had been running
through, and hastily followed Anne.
"Have a cushion," laughed Miriam hospitably, throwing a fat sofa pillow
at Grace, who caught it dextrously, patted it into shape and, placing it
on the floor, sat down on it Turk fashion. Elfreda poured another cup of
chocolate, then seated herself on the floor beside Grace. "Pass Grace
the sandwiches, Anne," she ordered. "We made these ourselves. We bought
the stuff at that new delicatessen place on High Street."
"They are delicious," commented Grace, between bites. "I'm hungry
to-night. I didn't like the dinner very well."
"Neither did we," responded Miriam. "After dinner we went out for a walk
to see what we could find, and we brought back what you see spread
before you."
"I shall pay a visit to the delicatessen shop," announced Grace.
"To-morrow night you must come to my room for a spread."
"I'll come to your room with pleasure," retorted Elfreda, "but not to
eat. One spread a week is my limit. Now for my news. The Anarchist has
accepted my invitation to the reception."
"Really!" exclaimed Grace. "Do tell us about it, Elfreda."
"I delivered my invitation after dinner to-night," began Elfreda. "I
waited and waited, thinking some one else might invite her. I am not
yearning for the honor, you know. I went to her door and knocked. Her
roommate, Miss Taylor, opened it. The Anarchist sat over in one corner
of the room, studying like mad. By the way, I understand she is a dig
and stands high in her classes."
"Is she?" asked Anne, opening her eyes. "Then that is one thing she has
in her favor. Perhaps we shall discover other good qualities in her that
we've overlooked."
"Perhaps," echoed Miriam dryly.
"Mustn't interrupt me," drawled Elfreda. "I may become peevish and
refuse to talk."
"All right," smiled Grace. "We accept the warning. Continue, my dear
Miss Briggs."
Elfreda grinned cheerfully. "I inquired with deferential politeness if
Miss Atkins were busy. Then the Anarchist looked up from her book,
glared like a lion, straightened her eyebrows and said in that awful
voice she owns, 'Did you wish to speak to me?'"
Elfreda unconsciously imitated the belligerent freshman. Her audience
giggled appreciatively.
"I replied in my most impressive English that I did wish to do that very
thing," continued Elfreda. "Then I inquired tactfully if I was too late
with my invitation to the sophomore dance. Without giving her time to
answer I put in my application for the position of escort.
Then"--Elfreda paused, a slight flush rose to her round face, "then she
looked me in the eye and told me a deliberate untruth. She said she had
refused one invitation because she had not been interested in the
reception, but that she had changed her mind. She thanked me and said
she would be pleased to go. I bowed myself out without further ado, but
Miss Taylor gave me the queerest look as I went. Her face was as red as
fire. It was she who told me that the Anarchist had not been invited.
She was afraid I might think she hadn't told the truth, but I knew
better. Now, don't ever tell any one what I have said."
"I'm sorry she didn't tell the truth," said Grace disapprovingly. "Why
couldn't she say that she had not been invited?"
"False pride," commented Miriam. "She evidently isn't so indifferent to
the opinion of others as she would have us believe."
"She is a strange girl," mused Anne. "Perhaps she is not altogether to
blame for her odd ways."
"'Odd' is a good name for them," jeered Elfreda. "I wouldn't call it
'odd,' I'd use a stronger word than that. It's contemptible. I'm sorry I
asked her to go to the reception."
"Then recall your invitation and tell her your reason for doing so,"
advised Miriam Nesbit bluntly. "Don't take her to the reception in that
spirit. You will make yourself and her equally unhappy."
"Hear the sage lay down the law," retorted Elfreda impudently. "She's
right, though, only I won't withdraw my invitation at this late date.
I'll try to give the Anarchist the most exciting time of her young life,
but if she balks please don't blame me. You can lead an Anarchist to a
reception, you know, but you can't make her dance unless she happens to
feel like dancing. Still, I am going to do my best, and no sophomore can
do more."
"That sounds like the Elfreda Briggs I heard talking last night," said
Grace, smiling her approval of the stout girl's words.
"So it does," agreed Elfreda. "Hereafter I'll try to be more consistent.
As for the Anarchist, she shall reap the benefit of my vow. I hope she
knows how to dance. If she doesn't I shall have to constitute myself a
committee of one to furnish amusement for her. If on the fatal night you
see me, my arm firmly linked in that of her majesty, parading solemnly
about the gymnasium with a fixed smile, and an air of gayety that I am a
long way from feeling, don't you dare to laugh at me."
"We won't laugh at you, then, even though we can't help laughing at you
now," said Grace. "We shall be only too glad to do anything we can to
help you entertain her."
"I know that. Maybe you can help and maybe you can't. But if she doesn't
enjoy herself it won't be my fault."